The counting of the Omer is nearly complete; the festival of Shavuot, when we celebrate the revelation of Torah at Sinai, is next week. At Shavuot it's customary to read the Book of Ruth. In honor of the festival, here's a poem about Ruth.

THE HANDMAID'S TALE (RUTH)

Time for a different kind of harvest.Sated with bread and beerBoaz and his men sleep deeplyon the fragrant hay.The floor doesn’t creak.

When Boaz wakes, his eyesgleam with unshed tears.He is no longer young, maybeforty; his face is linedas Mahlon's never became.

Who are you? he asksand I hear an echoing question:who is it? what is it? who speaks?Spread your wings over me, I replyand his cloak billows high.

Now he clasps my foreign handand kisses the tips of my fingersnow skin glides against skinand the seed of salvation grows in methe outsider, the forbidden

we move from lack to fullnesswe sweeten our own storyand as my belly swells I praythat the day come speedily and soonwhen we won't need to distinguish

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A Ruth poem for Shavuot

The counting of the Omer is nearly complete; the festival of Shavuot, when we celebrate the revelation of Torah at Sinai, is next week. At Shavuot it's customary to read the Book of Ruth. In honor of the festival, here's a poem about Ruth.

THE HANDMAID'S TALE (RUTH)

Time for a different kind of harvest.Sated with bread and beerBoaz and his men sleep deeplyon the fragrant hay.The floor doesn’t creak.

When Boaz wakes, his eyesgleam with unshed tears.He is no longer young, maybeforty; his face is linedas Mahlon's never became.

Who are you? he asksand I hear an echoing question:who is it? what is it? who speaks?Spread your wings over me, I replyand his cloak billows high.

Now he clasps my foreign handand kisses the tips of my fingersnow skin glides against skinand the seed of salvation grows in methe outsider, the forbidden

we move from lack to fullnesswe sweeten our own storyand as my belly swells I praythat the day come speedily and soonwhen we won't need to distinguish